


Just a Painting on a Ceiling

by Zabbers



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Domination, Exhibitionism, F/M, Gloves, Mindsex, Other, Pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 14:51:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17582939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zabbers/pseuds/Zabbers
Summary: If the Doctor wants to be seen, Missy is the one to watch.





	Just a Painting on a Ceiling

He loves an audience. Why else the pontifications, the lectures and the speeches, why the little friends hanging onto his every word? 

But the Master loves to watch, so… There’s the phase with the CCTV. The endless fascinated psycho-holographic replays, coaxed out of a captive TARDIS. There’s the Mistress moving through the shadows all along the Doctor’s timeline, eyes alight and attentive and sharp. 

She's the one who puts the notion of a security camera into Nardole’s removable head. It's easy to work around the surveillance when she's alone, to face habitually away from its unsuspecting eye, to fool the lens with a hypnotic suggestion. Easy, too, to draw the Doctor’s attention to its presence, to make him feel the pervasiveness of its regard. 

The hairs on the back of his head stand on end under her fingertips, cloud-spun as if by static. He all but squirms under that impassive, swallowing scrutiny, warming nonetheless to his performance. 

More tricky, getting her hands on the footage. Worth the trouble, though, like catching the Doctor under a slide, herself the bait in the trap. She replays it over and over, filling the long days with a better kind of contemplation. 

Days of silence, sat in chairs, thermos of tea cooling between them. Terse debates pressed up against the bright windows, his back like a taut string, she, barely visible beneath the spare bulk of his body. The piano, when it arrives. Sandwiches. Swords. 

Had Nardole been watching? Or was the attention she felt merely her own? 

When they were children, they had always been watched. There was the thrill, of course, of sneaking away, out into the open beyond the protected spaces, where it was possible to pretend that nobody could see. Performances, then, for one another--jokes, dreams, intellectual acrobatics as they'd been taught, prodigal progeny of a grand tradition, megalomaniacs all. 

The holding pen is a perfect candidate for the Doctor’s exhibitionism, the security field tinged, tingly, tinted. Tangy. Oh, he longs to be contained in it even as he chafes at his confinement by her side. How hard it is not to run. How much easier it would be to be in chains, as she is, safe and seen in the tank, up on the pedestal, behind the glass. 

She could shut him inside and throw herself, sprawling, into his favourite chair, refuse to let him out until he releases himself against the dimpled leather of the piano bench on which she herself has spent so many hours.

But it’s for him, for his secret desires, that she sets the lures. So it’s better to wait, to be as patient as patient can be. He rewards her by bringing her a new friend, bright-eyed with curiosity and what passes for intelligence in a human, full of questions and wariness and eagerness. When the new friend doesn't die, and Missy winds up invited onto the TARDIS, well, the Doctor’s basically making a request, isn’t he? And far be it for her to deny him anything his darling hearts should want. 

She’ll make him say please.

It’s what nice people do. 

The TARDIS is an even better stage for it, all corridors and contradictions, dim warm rabbit warren of pulsing, living imagination. Missy is fond of this particular machine. She’s fond of the way it’s a bit too old, doesn’t often work as intended, the way it’s broken and patched together, every fix speaking, _Doctor, Doctor_ , like he’s pressed the prints of his fingers into the fabric of its reality. She likes when it falters, hesitates, not quite good enough. She likes when it tries anyway. 

They have a history, the Master and this TARDIS. Under the fresh paint and the facelift, those scars knit them together. They have an understanding. The ship knows what Missy wants, what the Doctor needs, how to warp the inside of itself to bring about the right conditions:

Their voices quiet and private, his head bowed close to hers. Bill walks by, suddenly shy and confused, forehead creased but tactful. A week later, Missy’s hand casual on his hip while he strokes a knot from her hair. From Bill’s position can she see the way the bone of his pelvis fits in the curve of her palm? He backs away when he sees that Bill is there--not too far, just a step or maybe two. 

Or another time, Bill turns a corner that should have led to a library, and instead the Doctor is against a wall, Missy kissing him as when they first kissed in these bodies, only he is kissing her back and instead of the wall, he’s scrabbling for her hand. When he opens his eyes to see that they’ve been seen, he flushes darkly. Missy smiles with satisfaction and pets the surface behind him, affectionate.

“Oh. Sorry!” Bill exclaims, eyes wide, and hurries the other way. 

A dimensionally transcendent living environment can be a maze, but a Time Lord carries a mental map, as obvious as any human’s map of a space that likes to stay still. With a little extra work, Missy always knows where Bill is, where Nardole is, who will or will not walk in on anything she and the Doctor might be doing. 

To be frank about it, it’s a foolish degree of freedom, and one that makes Missy wonder what exactly it is the Doctor can be thinking. But she isn’t going to bring it up if he doesn’t. 

He loves an audience. He wants to be appreciated, for once, by someone who knows what he’s on about. Fine; Missy likes to watch. 

It’s a simple step to work with him on one of his outings, to let herself enjoy the very old pleasure of solving a problem together, Master and Doctor against a common foe. Simple to let him smile at her, to smile back, to look at him as he’s always wanted to be looked at, to receive the same in return. It’s not that difficult to follow him home and let him take her hand. He kisses it, still elated, and she reaches to touch his face. She caresses his jaw and stands on her tiptoes and closes her eyes, and she imagines--or she remembers; it has been so long she’s no longer sure what’s real between them--that this is what it would have been like, if they’d kept their promises, if that was something they could have done.

She could almost let him hold her, just like this, happy, but it could never be enough. Besides, she’s put a lot of work in. She’s made _plans_.

She leads him to the venerable armchair. She sits in it, surveying from her lofty vantage point his TARDIS’ control room, its levels and its recesses, its viewports-on-a-space-station running lights, its heavyset brushed-metal struts. She is a queen, but this kingdom is trying so hard to obscure itself, someone who doesn’t know him wouldn’t know it wants more than anything to be seen, and to be understood.

She understands him.

The Doctor moves to find his way under her skirts, but Missy makes a warning noise, a glottal stop, high and lazy and forceful as a hand on his shoulder. 

“Knees,” she says, and even after all these years of incarceration and compromise, it’s like nothing has happened at all. There was a time, and it really wasn’t all that long ago, the order was a common one, the command unquestionable, the obedience--of necessity--absolute. 

(It’s different, now, though. It’s tinged with reckless, giddy joy.)

The Doctor sinks to his knees at her feet. Probably he thinks he is rewarding her for her cooperation, but look at him: look at how he loves to be where he is. 

Missy reaches into her pockets. She finds her gloves, pulls them on, snug around her skin. She leans down to him over the lip of the chair; he straightens to meet her, and she tugs on his hips, edging him forward; a slip of a button has him exposed, trousers and pants pooling around his calves. 

Missy evaluates this Doctor for the first time, taking the time to make clear to him the inescapability of her regard. She rests her hand palm-up between his thighs and lifts it just enough to register the weight of him in it, just enough for him to consider the patient, certain touch. The Doctor shifts minutely. Missy drops her hand. 

She looks him hard in the eye. “Now, you.” 

She could have meant, _now, you touch me_. She could have meant any number of things. He knows, they both know he knows what she means, what she wants, and when she sits back and makes herself comfortable, he begins to stroke himself, pulling and pressing, skin going tight and smooth. 

Never for a moment does she take her eyes off him. There, arranged at the top of the stairs, although there is no one as yet below them, the Doctor might as well be a sculpture on that pedestal; a shaft of pale light plays across his face, his upper arm, the angle of his wrist and the space between his legs. Shadows spill from him, fall away from him, like fabric made from stone.

It’s easy to watch him. It’s a pleasure, a privilege: now, as the Doctor is, or as the Doctor was, and will be. Missy lets him bring himself to the brink, giving him the gaze he desires, the audience he craves. 

When the tendons on the back of his hand tense, when he calls out, a whisper in the cavernous control centre, she stands, on her feet in an instant. She bends over to kiss him, tilting his chin to reach his mouth and letting it fall again to press her lips instead to the line of his hair, and then she steps around him and pulls him to his feet and bends him over the chair, bracing his hands against its arms. 

She rubs her palm over his buttock, considers slapping it, but has better things to do. She puts her mouth close to his ear. 

“You can’t see the console room anymore, or the door, or the stairs, or the access to the interior of the TARDIS.” A pause. “Tell me, Doctor, do you know where your companions are?”

The Doctor startles under her, his body jerking once, tensing. Missy can’t keep the smile from her voice. “I hope you’ve enjoyed all the little shows I’ve set up for you.”

Missy can feel the Doctor straining not to turn around. She fits her arm over his to hold him still, to help him. “What shows?” he asks, accepting her help, if not the situation.

“Oh, you know. Little Bill or stern Nardole at the right time in the right place to see that you’ve been naughty. Their shock. Their bewilderment! Bill’s fear. Nardole’s disapproval.” Missy makes room between the Doctor’s body and her own so that she can touch his skin again. She runs her glove along the outside of his thigh. “They could find us here at any minute.”

“I know they aren’t here,” the Doctor says, as though to convince himself.

“No, but you know they’re close. What if I called them?” She pushes her thumb in slow circles across the point below his tailbone. 

The Doctor’s unease is like a ripple of displaced water widening in him. “You wouldn’t.”

She slips her fingers between his cheeks. “What if I already have? What if they’re on their way? What about your dignity then, when they see you like this?”

“What about yours?”

“My dignity?” Missy laughs, suddenly cold. “One of them I met while I was begging for my life, the other when I’d already given it to you. I have no dignity.”

She reaches into her pocket for the other objects she’s prepared, steps easily out of her bloomers and just as easily into the harness. Here are the things that will dispel the chill. Here is the punchline, the perfect prop, the pièce de résistance. Missy covers her glove with lubricant and she warms it with her hands and she fills him with her fingers and the lubricant. 

“The thing to remember,” she says, working her hand to relax him, “is that you can’t be sure. You don’t know whether someone will walk in. You don’t know when it will happen. It could be now, while you’re helpless to my touch. It could be later, when I’m inside you, when you’re debasing your favourite chair, when you can do nothing more than cry my name, your mind bursting with the thought of me. I’ve put you on display. You’ve never been so visible. You’ve never been so vulnerable.”

She almost regrets the glove. She wants to feel what he’s feeling, in body, yes, but more avidly this vulnerability and his dismay and his yearning. She raises her other hand to her mouth and pulls the glove away with her teeth, drops it to the floor. She places her palm ever so lightly over his knuckles. Immediately, he curls his thumb over hers. 

Missy moves her fingers out of his arse and positions her cock against him. She pivots her hips, testing the heft and angle, the tightness of the harness, the tightness a pleasure. The Doctor is desperately, hide-and-seek quiet, but in their minds he’s frantic, needs crashing and crossing and amplifying one another, all peaks and troughs and white, aching foam. 

“Well. I see you,” she says, and fucks him, long, drawn-out strokes that have him keening, pushing back to meet her. “I know you.”

It’s an echo of a phrase the Doctor has said to the Master in the past, a weapon he’s used and not entirely understood. She’s spent lifetimes trying to make him see. 

Missy can’t feel the Doctor around her, but she can feel the object inside him, much less pliable, much less forgiving than her fingers. The Doctor’s concentrating carefully on the foreign presence, shaped not to yield even once it’s edged him open. Missy, monitoring him, is methodical, always moving and never quickly, breathing with him and with the rocking rhythm. 

In truth, they’re both exposed, both displayed like specimens for anyone to examine, faces blanched, ridiculous and helpless as dancing bears. Missy _isn’t_ sure—the doors could unlock, someone might just see. Control is approximate at best. This TARDIS is spectacularly unpredictable. 

She closes her eyes at the thought, intoxicated by the uncertainty.

“Missy!” The Doctor’s urgency veers close to an order. She looks down at him, blinking, and belatedly slaps his testicles with her still-gloved hand—a mild warning before wrapping it around him. They moan in tandem at the touch. 

“Say please,” Missy says. She accelerates the languid thrusting, turns it into a ruthless force. “Show me what you need, and say it.”

She barely needs to ask. It’s invitation, permission, a shove onto the proscenium, the light on his face. 

He gives it all to her, the worry and the want and the relief of letting her do this. He gives her the contradiction and the responsibility and the letting go of it, the plummeting out of it entirely, pushed by the awareness of her cock inside him and her knowledge of him and her machinations on behalf of him. He releases all of his pent up lonely love into her mind, and lets her have it all, and into that she thrusts and holds him and he asks it of her, that she take him and see him and understand him. To be known—this is what they’ve been yearning to say all along. In fact, they have been saying it—

“Please. Yes, _yes_. Please.”


End file.
